Hysteria

Hysteria has set in again. Not the kind caused by gynacalogical problems and a wandering womb but the end of a term/half term kind.

Teachers are getting excited for a few days without children or a few days with just their own kids where they can totally be themselves. They can stub their toe on the kitchen cabinet and shout, "bugger" without anyone saying, "Um, Miss, we're telling of (sic) you!" and potentially losing their source of income. And this is why we need school holidays.

In the staff room at 5pm last night, teachers were frantically marking, "Crap! Crap! Why is this work such crap?" Hearing primary school teachers swear can cause cognitive dissonance; a small disconnect in the brain. I imagined a parent walking in at that point, although they wouldn't because they all think we go home at three, despite the fact that school doesn't finish until 3.15 and most of us were running clubs until 4.30. If they had, though, they might have had the same experience I did in the Nineties in the BBC lobby when a children's TV presenter walked past the big screen showing one of the European Cup football matches with England playing Sweeden. You just don't expect a children's TV presenter to shout, "Come on you bollocking bunch of wanking tosspots,"at any time.

The conversation in the staff room then turned to the 'what's your favourite swear word?' game.

"Crap is my favourite," said the teacher marking the books.

"I like a good shit," said another.

"You can't beat a good fuck," said a third.

One of the male teachers walked in and was asked to join the game. "Well, I like bollocks," he said.

I resisted the urge to reply with, "I like cunt and I'm moving to Brighton," which is a good job because he then said," I was going to say the C word," which was interrupted with a chorus of, "Oh no, too far."  Never mention Christmas to teachers in May!

And this is why teachers need holidays. I have a theory that it is only possible to hold in the expletives for 6 or 7 weeks at a time and so children are given time off from teachers on a regular basis to protect their innocent ears. So, I hope all teachers enjoy their week off, writing reports.....(insert swear word of choice here!)

Spinning

The election is over and I'm spinning. Actually, I'm not spinning at all but the press are.

It must be a wonderful time for news writers, their chance to write fiction, where, "never let the truth get in the way of a good story," becomes the motto. 

If you know me personally, then you will probably have guessed that you should take everything I write with a large pinch of salt. I might not actually be telling you about my life, as it actually happened because I would never let the truth (or even politeness) get in the way of a good joke but you do expect journalists to do some fact checking. 

In the last few weeks we heard about the things that could be in George Osbourne's Austerity Budget; terrible things that will make everyone except his friends suffer. We heard about the abolition of the Human Rights Act and its replacement by the sensitive and brilliant Michael Gove, who definitely won't have any trouble with those push-over lawyers the way he did with the tough teachers. We heard how Nicky Morgan plans to make the school day run from 8am to 6pm with no holidays, so that hard working families can work harder and forget they have children. We heard how John Whittingdale plans to get rid of the BBC because the licence fee is the worst idea since the poll tax, which as he was private secretary to the Prime Minister when it was introduced I can only assume he means it's a good idea. We read stories that Caroline Dinage, as equalities minister planned to ban gay marriage. Jeremy Hunt, we heard, announced a plan for hospital bed-sharing to ensure that the NHS remained free at the point of delivery, since the information of how to get the NHS to pay for your Calpol from Boots went viral on Facebook. Whoops! Sorry, there I go again: making stuff up for the sake of a joke but it doesn't sound very different to some of the things I've read. 

Since the loss of newspaper circulation many journalists have had to find other work and many have ended up in PR. They write press releases that reporters on newspapers won't check because they trust that the NCTJ qualified contributor has followed the ethics of their training and because there isn't time now that they are doing the job of ten men (which does seem to be possible for female journalists).

These spinning stories do worry me a little. When, whatever these departments make their real changes we will all say, "oh that's not too bad. I'm happy to have   gynaecology consultants replaced by plumbers. Better than sharing a bed!"

Time with the LSH

The Long Suffering Husband and I have been together for a tiny bit over 30 years and married for a smidgen under 24. That is a long time for anyone to have to put up with me.  He is a man of extraordinary patience.

Recently, I've been harder to live with than ever; dragging myself through a working week to collapse, grumpy and fit for nothing over the weekend.  He has responded by getting on with jobs that I would normally do and playing lots of golf.  This weekend, however, was the first in a long time that I've felt more like myself, so we spent time together doing the boring things that couples do that you'd never think you'd miss.

We walked the dog, went to the supermarket, the allotment and the garden centre. We had a walk round B&Q and went to the theatre.

We saw Noises Off at The Mercury, which is a side-splittingly funny farce. The LSH came away concerned that his sense of humour chip had broken. "I know everyone was laughing but I just don't find things funny anymore," he complained at the end. "The only thing that makes me laugh now is you!"

It's good to know that I have my uses, even when I am tired and grumpy.

He had laughed all weekend. He laughed when, in the supermarket, he had been suddenly inspired by the tape measure in his pocket to see how tall I was.

"Are you measuring me for my coffin?" I asked,not unreasonably. 

"I'm not getting you a coffin," he chuckled.

"That's fine. I'd rather have a cardboard box. It's such a waste to burn all that lovely polished wood and brass fittings."

"Anyway, I've told you I'm going first," he reminded me.

"Well, you're having a cardboard box too then," 

"I want a proper box, though," he protested.

"It's such a waste. I wonder if we could re-use it? You know, once the little curtains close and the organist plays lots of wrong notes too fast, they could take you out of the box to chuck you on the fire. Then we could use the box for other family funerals."

"A rental scheme? You do make me laugh," he said.

I don't see why. It's just practical.

Then when we were in the garden centre I bought a present for my grandma, who is suffering because she's in hospital. It's not what's wrong with her that's causing the suffering but the fact that she isn't allowed her daily G&T.

The LSH looked at it and started laughing. He was reluctant to tell me why but eventually he said that they should make one that said, "Julia's Garden. Fuck Off!" Again, I don't know what's funny about that: it would be practically perfect. He had, after all, spent some time with me at the allotment being nice to people and talking to them, while I pretended to be engrossed in a weed, muttering, "Allotment Nazi!" under my breath.

He makes me laugh too. He is a complete numpty with a computer, which is a surprise considering he is an IT expert at work. He had managed to book tickets for the theatre for the week after. Luckily, while he was getting stressed about his mistake and I was laughing the nice people at The Mercury allowed us to sit in the emergency seats, rather than going home. His texts are also very funny but I am concerned that he has saved one of mine (a shopping list) so he can get his car to replay it to him every time he needs a laugh. It's not my fault the car grouped the list in threes: Chocolate dog food, pizza cotton wool, balls cucumber coke!

I'm glad he finds me funny because really, the man deserves a medal.